See How We Move
by Red-Bullet
Summary: Turbulent minds make for turbulent lovers. Kinda strong in the way of sexual suggestion. FayeSpike
1. Watch Us Bend

This doesn't take place in my Passive story at all, but by all means take a look at that one two. I'm an egoist, what can I say? This two parter is a little more on the darker side and kind of strong in the way of sexual suggestion. So, yeah, take note. Lemme know what you think, even if it's to tell me I'm just abusing the characters.

Disclaimer: Bebop isn't mine. Wasn't mine. Won't be mine.

-Red Bullet

**See How We Move: Watch Us Bend**

This is four years of release. This is escaping from four years of being awake and being lost and stuck in perpetuated cycles of bad moments that only feed into the sedated delirium I've been dwelling in the entire time. It's a devourering thing, the delirium. It just consumes and feasts and grows along with its appetite and it leaves me too doped up on experiences to do anything meaningful and too strung out to be nice about it.

Except for this.

So when he bites into my collarbone and I yank on his back and shove my crotch against his hand, it isn't just about good sex. It's also about getting away from everything that's gone wrong in the last four years and being greedy about something comparatively decent in front of me. Around me. In me. For me.

This isn't romance. There aren't loving embraces during the afterglow. There aren't any flowery words beyond "now", "more', and "harder. This isn't a love story, at least not in the traditional sense of the concept. He's not my White Knight and I'm not his Sleeping Beauty, no matter how well the cliché might fit. There aren't any "I love yous", even though it might be true. If one of us slipped up and said as much it would probably be the biggest betrayal we could deliver.

So we only let this be about reality, and desire and frustration. Keep it simple. Keep it clean. Keep us sane. It's a meeting of the minds. A non-verbal admission to the fact that we both want the other, but we're both too fucked up and damaged to really make an honest go at it.

This will keep going on until one of us ends up dead. From either our job or our own cowardice. If you really think about it, our entire lives are really just one neon example of an overly complicated suicide.

We're both adrenaline junkies operating in a field of work that has a short shelf life for its followers and we're both on our ways to being considered ripe. Right down to our vices, it's like we're urging our selves 'Just give up, it'll be okay. No harm. No foul.' Our lungs are probably already rotten stains and our livers half destroyed.

One day Jet's going to find Spike's body on the couch, but he'll only check him because the smell is getting so bad. One day Jet's going to find my waterlogged corpse in the tub and I'll be all wrinkled and spoiled and a testament to the fact there wasn't any real point in waking me up from cold sleep in the first place. One day Jet's going to get sick of the both of us and shoot us dead. We can only hope.

But tonight it's all skin and hands and pelvises grinding each other. Same as this morning. Same as last night. Same as it has been since this started. And we'll fall asleep without word and blissful in the reprieve from thought and choice and sometime later I'll wake up with the sensation of his frizzy hair brushing my back as he licks and nips his way around to my breast and it'll begin again and I'll be able to forget all over again the second my legs wrap around his waist.

We're as loyal to the process as we are each other.


	2. Watch Us Break

Disclaimer: Bebop isn't mine. Wasn't mine. Won't be mine.

**See How We Move: Watch Us Break**

This is as good as it's ever going to get. The moment's when I've got her spread beneath me and she's lost in her efforts and I'm doing the same, but I hold on for just the briefest moment longer than she can and allow for the selfish fantasy that what we're doing is ever going to be honest.

Pretend that when I enter and thrust and grab and pull and command and conquer that it's all going to end well. It'll end with a smile and a smirk and a ride off into the sunset. When I tell her to grab the pipes that run the length of my bunk and she obeys and my thumbs bury into the base of her spine, when I do all that and I lean my head against the back of her neck, that's when it becomes the hardest not to loose track of the hem of what's really going on and what I want 'really' to be.

Doesn't stop me from doing it though.

Faye isn't the kind of woman who needs to be held after sex, but she also doesn't resist when I drag her back against me before we finally pass out. And again, the fantasy will come rushing in with its desaturated wonder.

She's right. I know she's right. Hell, I'm the one who explained the rules, Faye's just supporting my judgment on the matter. For once. God. Fuck. Damnit.

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair!

Futility. That's what my life comes down to. Heaps and heaps of futility. There wasn't a point in me shacking up with Julia. There wasn't a point in me taking on Vicious the last go-round. There wasn't a point in me doing half the things I've done and there sure as hell wasn't a point in me telling Faye to keep emotion out of this when I knew damned well neither of us would be able to.

We'd only be able to hide it from the other and only if the other wasn't looking for it. We'd only be able to chip the other a little more. We'd only be able to apply more damage to already tender war wounds. Scatter the pieces, as it were.

I'm thinking about all of this as she moves above me, those beautiful hips of hers twitching and bucking in the most exquisite of manners. I'm thinking about all of this as I trace the ridges of her back when she arches. I'm thinking about all of this when I twist us so she's beneath me again and pray to god and devil alike that she'll mistake my stupid fucking tears on her neck for sweat.


End file.
